


A Long-Awaited Party

by beetle



Category: The Hobbit (2012)
Genre: LOTR, M/M, The Hobbit - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-02
Updated: 2013-04-02
Packaged: 2017-12-07 07:46:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/746048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the LJ hobbit_kink prompt: "PLEASE! Domesticity in the shire. Neighbours thinking Frodo will grow up to be wild, raised by "that Baggins that went adventuring" and his dwarf husband. (Queue frodo's parents throwing the best parties so all the kids want to be friends with Frodo and Bilbo and Bofur constantly needing to reassure other parents they aren't there to corrupt the youth)."</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Long-Awaited Party

**Author's Note:**

> Notes/Warnings: Set post-The Hobbit. Spoiler-ish. But only if you squint. Also, I made Frodo nine because, well, I can do that. Also changed his birthdate so he and Bilbo don't share one. AU, bitches.
> 
> Disclaimer: Not mine.

  
“Uncle Bilbo! Uncle Bofur!”  
  
Bofur groans groggily as something solid lands on the bed between himself and his husband. The something immediately upon landing starts shaking him with tiny, persistent little hands and talking a mile a minute in his ear.  
  
“Wake up! Wake up! It's my birthday!”  
  
“That's lovely, Frodo . . . let us have another five minutes, sweetheart, will you?” A sleepy voice yawns from the other side of the bed. “Just five more. . . .”  
  
Bilbo's already half-asleep again, but Bofur is already more than half-awake.  
  
“But—but it's my birthday!” Their nephew insists. “I'm nine years old!”  
  
Bofur rolls over with a grunt and pulls Frodo down to the bed for intensive tickling. The boy giggles and tries to defend his bony ribs to no success.  
  
“Yes, and you'll still be nine years old five minutes from now, so scat! Your uncle and I will be up to make you breakfast shortly,” he promises, changing the tickling to a hug and a kiss on the cheek that makes Frodo say  _yuck!_  and hop off the bed. He's a small, pale, curly-haired child with big blue eyes and an exciteable, affectionate manner, wearing a child's sleeping gown that's nonetheless bagging on his slight frame.  
  
But now, he levels his sternest, little-boy look at his uncles, one of whom is already snoring again. “But no kissy-faces, you two. Or I won't get first breakfast till it's time for  _second_ breakfast!”  
  
“ _OUT_!” Bofur thunders, laughing and blushing, and his nephew runs from the bedroom, still giggling, feet slap-slapping the hard wood floor. He closes the door behind himself when he goes, but Bofur can still hear the slap of those Hobbit feet down the hall.  
  
He sits up and rubs his eyes. Reaches over to the other edge of the bed, where Bilbo had rolled upon Frodo's landing. “Come on, love. Time to make the boy breakfast and get ready for the party.”  
  
Bilbo groans. “Just another hour . . . two, at most, and I'll be ready to face the day. . . .”  
  
Bofur spoons up behind Bilbo and kisses the tip of one pointed ear. “Soonest begun is half done.”  
  
“Ungh.”  
  
Bofur grins and nuzzles Bilbo's neck. “I'll give you a lovely treat. . . .”  
  
Bilbo groans again, but sounds more awake when he answers. “Frodo'll never leave us be long enough for  _treating_  of any kind. Not  _this_  morning.” Though he does sound interested. He even turns over in Bofur's arms to regard his husband with a slightly myopic squint. “Anyway, I'm still recovering from last night's, er,  _treating_.”  
  
Smiling wistfully, Bofur sighs. “Ah, last night . . . how-ever did we talk Frodo into going to bed so early?”  
  
His eyebrows shooting up, Bilbo sits up on his elbows and kisses Bofur good morning. Bofur reaches up and cups his face tenderly, brushing back sleep-mussed curls and fringe. “Well,  _one of us_  told him the longer he slept the night before his birthday, the more presents he might get.”  
  
“I only said 'might,' love . . . anyway, it was a possibility.”  
  
“Hah! I wasn't wrapping another present this late in the game, Master Bofur, and you knew it,” Bilbo says determinedly, but letting Bofur bear him down to the bed for more kisses. When Bofur rolls on top of him, hard as anything—as he always is, first thing in the morning—Bilbo sighs, but wraps his arms around Bofur's neck as Bofur parts his legs with one knobby knee.  
  
“We can't, Bofur. Frodo'll be back any minute.”  
  
“He knows to give us some privacy when we wake up, by now,” Bofur promises. And surely, Frodo does, after having walked in without knocking several times to his uncles making  _kissy-faces_. “He'll knock, first.”  
  
“But—“  
  
“He's probably out in the garden racing snails and slugs against each other, as we speak.” Bofur pulls Bilbo's legs around his waist and settles atop his husband with a happy sigh, grinding their pelvises together till Bilbo's just as hard as he is and panting. He grins. “We'll have at least another fifteen minutes to get the job done if we skip the bloody foreplay.”  
  
Bilbo rolls his eyes and runs his hands up Bofur's muscular arms. “Oh, you romantic sod, you,” he says dryly. Then nothing else is said for quite some time.  
  


*

  
  
Bilbo's frying eggs and keeping an eye on the porridge, smiling to himself and humming absently, when Frodo dashes in through the kitchen door. He immediately runs for the table then, after an expectant look from Bilbo, hurries back to the door and closes it.  
  
“And the hands. Let's see the hands.”  
  
Frodo heaves a big sigh and holds out his grubby, grimy little hands. Bilbo nods toward the sink. “Give them a good scrubbing, till there's more skin visible than dirt, please.”  
  
“Aw, Uncle Bilbo. . . .”  
  
“Do as your uncle says, Frodo. Or else breakfast might be delayed.” Bofur enters the kitchen, dressed in his work clothes, for the nonce, and wearing his hat despite the warm weather. Bilbo rolls his eyes fondly as his husband crosses the kitchen to wrap strong arms around his waist and kiss the nape of his neck.  
  
“Breakfast will most certainly be delayed until all hands are pink and clean.”  
  
Bofur holds out his rough, callused hands. They're not exactly pink, but they're clean. “That'll do,” Bilbo says, and Bofur smiles against his neck. His hands go to the tie holding Bilbo's bathrobe closed, and Bilbo smacks them away.  
  
Frodo, meanwhile, has climbed on the little step stool and is making a mess of washing his hands at the kitchen sink. There's plenty of water, but hardly any soap involved. Bilbo sighs his most put-upon sigh.  
  
“Little boys will always have dirty little hands, no matter how much washing is involved,” Bofur says, swaying them both. “That's the nature of the beast.”  
  
“I can assure you, my hands were very clean when I was Frodo's age,” Bilbo says loftily, though he acknowledges, at least to himself, that he may be exaggerating.  
  
“Clean hands, eh? You must not have been any fun at all.”  
  
“Well, that very much depends on your idea of fun, doesn't it?”  
  
Bofur  _hmms_. “I think you know very well what my idea of fun is, love.”  
  
Smiling in spite of himself, Bilbo puts the eggs on the back burner and the cover over the pot of porridge, and turns in Bofur's arms. His husband's eyes are sparkling with mischief.  
  
“I have some idea,” Bilbo says archly, cupping Bofur's face in his hands and kissing him lightly. “I think it involves you making sure Frodo's hands are at least passably clean, then setting the table. . . .”  
  
Bofur makes a face. “No fun at all,” he mutters, but his lips are twitching like he wants to smile. Then with a quick, but promising squeeze of Bilbo's backside, Bofur's letting him go and walking over to the sink and their nephew. “Alright, little one, let's see about those hands.”  
  


*

  
  
Decorating Bag End isn't such a chore, especially since they'd got the worst of it out of the way the day before—and only after sending Frodo to play with the young Gamgee boy, to keep him out from under foot.  
  
Today, the only real chore that remains, what with streamers hung and presents wrapped and everything spiffied up, is the last of the baking.  
  
Bilbo  _hates_  baking. Especially to a deadline.  
  
And Bofur is absolutely no help, seeming to eat muffins and biscuits as fast as Bilbo can make them. And he's even eyeing the cake—fresh out of the cold cellar—the way a cat eyes pigeons.  
  
“Get out!” Bilbo finally exclaims, and Bofur, leaning on the counter, half-way through inhaling a blueberry muffin, looks at him, wide-eyed with surprise. Bilbo sighs and pastes on a smile that may be more of a grimace as he bends to get the latest batch of muffins out of the oven with towel-covered hands. “I mean, er, get out, get some air. You must be awfully bored, being cooped up in here with me, waiting for muffins to bake.”  
  
“I'm finding ways to keep myself from getting bored,” Bofur says lazily, and Bilbo glances over his shoulder at Bofur, to find that his backside is being ogled speculatively.  
  
Bilbo stands up and places the first muffin tin on the counter.  
  
“Oh, give me strength,” he breathes almost silently. Then in a louder voice. “ _No_ , Bofur. The guests will be arriving in less than two hours and I have to bake another fifty muffins within that time-frame.”  
  
“But aren't there a hundred muffins still in the cold room? And about a thousand biscuits?” Bofur asks incredulously. Bilbo bends over to get the second tray of muffins.  
  
“Yes, there are. Or there were, depending how often you and Frodo have been in there,” Bilbo snorts, then yelps when he burns his thumb because the towel slips. “But there's nothing exciting going on here, just one harried Hobbit tying to make some muffins. So why don't you pay a visit to Gaffer Gamgee and swap some Big Fish stories?”  
  
He can all but hear Bofur pout. “But it smells so  _good_  in here. And the view is quite lovely.”  
  
Bilbo sighs again, standing up with the second tray. He places it, too, on the counter, and looks at his thumb critically, before putting it in his mouth. He turns to face his husband, who is, for once, not eating a muffin or a biscuit. “You have a one-track mind,” he says around his scorched digit.  
  
“Where you're concerned, that I do, love.” Bofur admits, crossing the kitchen, pulling Bilbo's reddened finger out of his mouth and looking it over solemnly. Finally, he pulls it up to his mouth and kisses it gently. “There.”  
  
Bilbo finds himself smiling rather helplessly. “Thanks. All better.”  
  
“I promise I won't eat anymore muffins or biscuits till the party,” Bofur says, smiling his most earnest smile. Bilbo reaches up and brushes a lock of Bofur's hair from out of his face, to under his hat. “Well, alright, then. You can stay.”  
  
The earnest smile turns into the triumphant grin and Bilbo rolls his eyes and sighs yet again, wondering if he's made a mistake. Then Bofur kisses him, tasting of sugar and blueberries.  
  
Any thought of mistakes—or much of anything else—flies out of Bilbo's head, entirely. In the end, only twenty-six more muffins get made. Neither of them can be bothered to worry about it.  
  


*

  
  
When the first knock on the door sounds, Bilbo and Bofur hurry to the door. Frodo is already there, dressed in his nicest wee suit, and a hat-less, impeccably-braided Bofur arrives smoothing his midnight blue tunic and matching breeches.  
  
“You both look very handsome,” Bilbo says to his nephew and his husband, feeling a small swell of pride move through him. Frodo preens and Bofur waggles his eyebrows.  
  
“Not as handsome as  _you_ , my love,” he says, putting his hands on Frodo's shoulders and squeezing them gently. “Isn't that right, Frodo-lad?”  
  
“You look like a prince from one of Gaffer Gamgee's stories, Uncle Bilbo,” Frodo says, slightly agog. In the near year that he's lived at Bag End, he's never seen either uncle dressed up. Nor have there been any truly special occasions that have required it.   
  
Though they've tried to make his new life happy for Frodo, there's been precious little to celebrate in the past ten months. It's really only in the last  _three_  that Frodo's truly begun to open up and behave as a child  _should_  behave, not as a somber little ghost.  
  
“Thank you, Frodo. Thank you, love.” Bilbo kisses each of them on the cheek, then puts his hand on the doorknob. “Alright. Smiles, you two.”  
  
He opens the door and finds himself looking down at a suited, shyly smiling little Hobbit. The boy is holding a handful of lovely posies out like a shield, and Bilbo smiles.  
  
“Welcome to Bag End, Samwise Gamgee! Come in!”  
  


*

  
  
Little Samwise is one of only a few children to arrive without parent(s) in tow.  
  
Most of the other children show up, eager to race inside to play with Frodo—he's a popular lad, their Frodo—but their parents hang back on the doorstep warily.  
  
“Mister Baggins, Mister. . . Bofur,” one of children's parents will say—usually the mother—smiling a nervous smile, eyes darting everywhere as they size up Bag End and its inhabitants. What little of it they can see of either from the vantage point of  _front doorstep_. “So good of you to have us over.”  
  
“Think nothing of it,” one of  _Frodo_ 's parents will say—usually Bilbo—smiling welcomingly. “It's our little boy's birthday, a happy day, and we'd like nothing better than to share that happiness with the other children of Hobbiton.”  
  
“Aye. We've been baking for days,” Bofur will add, putting his arm around Bilbo's waist. At this sign of affection, the child's parents often share a look, then step inside as if stepping into a dragon's lair.  
  
“We'll just . . . stay for a bit to see how our little one gets along. You don't mind, do you?”  
  
“Of course not,” Bilbo will say mildly. “You're welcome to stay as long as you like.”  
  
And that's that.  
  
Well, not really.  
  
“You'd think we were planning to devour their precious wee ones,” Bofur huffs quietly, angrily as the most recent set of parents—Bag End is getting rather crowded—make their way toward the livingroom, where most of the children are playing and eating biscuits and laughing. “You'd think we were out to corrupt them with our  _lifestyle_.”  
  
“Well, I did make my fortune as a burglar. . . .”  
  
“Yes, but  _they_  don't know that! They're just being close-minded for no good reason!” Bofur glowers offendedly after the last set of parents.  
  
Bilbo hushes Bofur, putting a calming hand on his husband's arm. “They're just not used to, well, people like us. It's not often a Hobbit has Dwarf for a husband. Or a husband period. And even less often that the pair are raising a child together.” When Bofur mutters something about hide-bound, provincial Hobbits, Bilbo reaches up and tweaks his mustache. “Oi. No bad-mouthing Hobbits. I happen to be one.”  
  
“Aye, but a most extraordinary Hobbit,” Bofur murmurs, looking down into Bilbo's eyes solemnly. “A Hobbit that I love.”  
  
Smiling, Bilbo brings a hand to Bofur's face, brushing the backs of his knuckles across Bofur's cheek. “I love you, too. And no amount of purse-lipped party-poopers will ever make me regret that.”  
  
They lean in to kiss, but have barely bussed each other's lips when their tunic and suit jacket, respectively, get tugged on. They find themselves looking down at a very excited Frodo.  
  
“Everyone's here! Can I open my presents, now?” he asks, bouncing in place like a child-shaped football. Bofur grins and musses Frodo's hair—which is already plenty mussed, despite Bilbo's occasional attempts to make all the dark, unruly curls lie in one direction.  
  
“Of course you can, lad,” Bofur says, and he's barely finished speaking before Frodo's dashing off, bellowing at the top of his lungs: “ _I can open them, now!_ "  
  
Bilbo and Bofur share a glance and, arm in arm, make their way to the livingroom, ignoring the stares they get as they go.  
  


*

  
  
Just as he was the first to arrive, Samwise Gamgee is the last to leave. He seems, by the time the sun has set and everyone else has gone, to be content to watch Frodo play with his new toys.  
  
But all good things must end, and even Samwise eventually looks at the clock with an unhappy little sigh.  
  
“Mister Bilbo, Mister Bofur, Mister Frodo. I had a lovely time,” he says with painfully stilted manners, as sober as a little judge, standing with his hands clasped behind his back. Frodo is still spinning the top and jacks—carved and cast by Bofur—in front of the fire, and Bofur and Bilbo are sitting in their chairs, the former smoking and nodding, the latter reading.  
  
Bilbo looks up from his book and smiles. “Ready to go home, then?”  
  
Samwise shrugs. “Not really sir, but it's getting late, and I don't wish to impose.”  
  
“Aw, don't go, Sam—you could stay the night, if you wanted—he could stay the night if he wanted, right, Uncle Bilbo?” When Frodo turns those big, blue eyes on Bilbo, Bilbo's helpless to say anything but yes. Especially since this is the first sleepover Frodo's ever asked for since coming to live at Bag End.  
  
“Well, you'd have to ask  _his_  parents. If they don't mind, I don't see why not. . . .”  
  
Frodo whoops and jumps up, grabbing Sam's hand and dragging him toward the front door. Sam, looking bemused, lets himself be dragged without protest.  
  
“We'll be back in a bit!” Frodo calls just before the door slams shut.  
  
Smiling to himself and marking the page in his book, Bilbo stands up and crosses the hearth to Bofur's chair. At this point, Bofur is literally smoking in his sleep. It isn't the first time.  
  
“Wake up, before you burn down Bag End,” Bilbo laughs, taking the pipe out of Bofur's mouth. His husband starts awake, blinking groggily.  
  
“I wasn't sleeping, I was resting my eyes,” he claims, and Bilbo leans down to kiss his forehead.  
  
“Your eyes have rested enough. Come help me make supper. We'll likely have a little guest.”  
  
Bofur glances around the gift-littered livingroom, sees neither child who'd last been there, and looks at Bilbo questioningly. “The Gamgee lad?”  
  
Bilbo nods and Bofur stands up with a groan. He reaches for his pipe and Bilbo hands it back after pretending to think about it.  
  
“I like that boy. And his family. They're a canny, friendly lot,” Bofur says approvingly, settling his pipe in the corner of his mouth. “And I think Samwise has a wee bit of a . . . fondness for our Frodo.”  
  
Bilbo's eyebrows quirk up under his fringe. “You mean fondness, or . . .  _fondness_?”  
  
Bofur shoots Bilbo a look and Bilbo says: “Huh,” and laughs a little.  
  
“Indeed.” Bofur stretches then puts his arm around Bilbo's waist, guiding him to the kitchen. “That'll be something to keep an eye on, in future. Though Frodo could do much worse than a Gamgee.”  
  
“Has it yet occurred to you that our nephew might prefer girls?” Bilbo asks, rather amused. Bofur waves a hand dismissively.  
  
“Did you see the face he made when that little Rosie Cotton kissed him on the cheek? Downright revolted, he was.”  
  
“Well, he's nine, he's not going to be happy about  _anyone_  kissing him, at this age.”  
  
“Hmph. Still. I doubt he'd have pulled such a face had young  _Samwise_  been doing the kissing.”  
  
Bilbo rolls his eyes. “Whatever you say, dear.”  
  


*

  
  
After dinner, getting two energetic little boys to go to bed is a complicated affair, involving bribes, threats, and the telling of several stories.  
  
But eventually, it's done, and Bilbo and Bofur are gently closing the door to Frodo's room on Frodo's soft snores and Samwise's louder ones.  
  
Once the door clicks shut, Biblo sighs and leans against it, meeting Bofur's eyes.  
  
After a few moments they both start laughing quietly. Bofur holds out his hand and Bilbo takes it. Together they make their way to their bedroom, turning off lamps and blowing out candles on the way, still chuckling. The cleaning up of streamers and party favors and the like will certainly have to wait till the morrow.  
  
They help each other out of their party clothes with many a kiss and caress, and many a yawn, before settling into bed and each other's arms.  
  
“I'm bloody exhausted, love,” Bilbo yawns, and Bofur sighs, this time.  
  
“I could do with a good night's sleep, myself,” he admits, then grins tiredly. “But I think I've still got a little energy left. More than enough to attend to my marital duties.”  
  
Bilbo fights a grin of his own and loses. “Will you be disappointed if I simply lay here and think of the Shire while you bugger me?” he asks and laughs in surprise when Bofur rolls them over so that he's on top of Bilbo.  
  
“You can think of whatever you like while I bugger you,” Bofur says grandly, kissing Bilbo's throat lingeringly.  
  
“Mm. The Shire, it is, then.” Bilbo reaches out to turn down the bedside lamp. “And I promise to try extra hard to stay awake. . . .”  
  
Bofur's kissed his way down Bilbo's throat, to his chest, but he pauses to look up at his husband with the most solemn gaze. “Oh, you romantic sod, you,” he breathes, ducking under the covers. A second later, Bilbo is giggling and thrashing . . . a few seconds after  _that_ , he's moaning and murmuring Bofur's name.  
  
And despite the lateness of the hour and the fullness of the day, neither Bilbo nor Bofur fall asleep before the great clock in the hall strikes midnight. Bofur's asleep first, snoring in Bilbo's ear, one arm pillowing Bilbo's head, the other draped over his waist.  
  
Bilbo takes a little longer to fall asleep, linking their fingers together and basking in the warmth of his rather wonderful life.   
  
Eventually he slips into a deep sleep featuring no dreams. But that's alright. All his dreams have already come true, anyway.


End file.
